Unexpected
by l'author
Summary: When JJ goes out after Skate Canada with a gold around his neck and the world wrapped around his pinky, the last thing he expects is to see is Yuri Plisetsky, drunk as hell, wearing nothing but Otabek's leather jacket, and twerking on the bar. (I bet my parents are so proud of me...)


Author's note: hoping no future employers dig this one up

* * *

I don't value the distinction between private and public life, which makes me a very bad secret keeper. Yuri Plisetsky is only 90 pounds, which makes him a very verbal drinker. Yesterday, we were in the same place at the same time.

Do you see the problem here?

I suppose there are more malicious things I could do to violate his trust, things that involve tweeting to my 17,000 followers, but you know what they say - there is no king without his subjects. It would be against my title to betray even the princess. Though, this doesn't mean that my telling you Plisetsky's secret - which, by the way, he didn't even want me to know - isn't a wrong doing. I just can't keep it in anymore, and as a JJ's girl, feel that I can entrust this confidential information to you.

This is the story of how I found Yuri Plisetsky drunk, spent C$75 on VIP club tickets I didn't want, received a lapdance, and wound up being a confident for my competitor.

The night started out golden - literally. I'd just won Skate Canada a whopping 5 points above my ex-rinkmate Otabek Altin, knocked Katsuki off the podium, and shoved the Russian fairy into a dimeening bronze. There's nothing in the world that brings me more joy than being at the top, proudly representing my home city of Montreal: not even the look of resignation that crossed Plisetsky's face at the ceremony. This was going to be my season.

Since I'd be alone in my apartment until the next afternoon, I decided to seize my opportunity back in my hometown to hit up some of my old friends. I made a group chat with my old high school buddies, Alan and Pierre, and shot them a text that read, _Bella's in Quebec City visiting family, wanna crash my place?_ They practically jumped right on top of me at around 10pm when I'd just about given up on receiving a response from them.

"- _Quoi?"_

Pierre bit the cap off a beer and dumped the piss water into my mouth, Alan bent at the waist with his familiar hooting laughter. Already I could see the night map itself before me, a reflection of nights gone by spent similarly, and none of which could ever be considered time wasted.

"You guys are insane!" I was spewing beer all over the apartment floor - _good thing Isabella isn't here_ ,I thought. "I can't believe you still drink this _merde_."

They were still hooting their cacophonous laughs, and I wiped my mouth in mock anger.

" _T'es pas drôle, Jean-Jacque,_ " Alan gasped. "We're taking you to _À Contre-Courant, '_ show you a good time as a congratulations."

I shook my head at the name. As high school seniors, we'd constantly try to sneak into _À Contre-Courant,_ the hottest club in Montreal. Although 18 is the drinking age in Quebec province, _À Contre-Courant_ was always incredibly strict about who got to enter, only allowing people of a certain status or "look" in. We'd ended up spending most of our weekends elsewhere, plotting a way to negotiate with the bouncers and dreaming of the day we'd be let in.

I grinned, because this was the day. I was so well known at this point in my career that I could practically get into anywhere if I offered an autograph or something. Of course _mes copains_ would take advantage of that. As they should.

"Fuck yes. Lemme grab my National Team jacket and sunglasses."

"Yeah, no way they'll turn down a celeb and his boys," Alan said, finishing my beer.

Pierre rolled his eyes. "Do you still leave them on your head?"

"Oui," I replied, thinking about when Yuri called me a jerk in Barcelona for doing simply that.

I shrugged on my jacket and pocketed my keys. "Ready?"

"You look like an idiot."

We headed out. They were always busting my chops like that, but the banter kept me on my toes.

Our plan ended up working, and high school dreams were fulfilled when we found the club was everything we'd anticipated. There were purple and blue strobe lights painting the dancing bodies inside, music blaring from all directions, and hot chicks in cocktail dresses walking up and down a glass, spiral staircase that led to the upstairs VIP section. Dazzled, we made our way to the bar. I took two shots for kicks, but decided I'd have to look out for these guys considering all the opportunities for errors I could envision already.

Things picked up when my liver lagged behind my metabolism, and I felt a buzz on the dance floor. I thought this was going to be the night of my life: a night to embrace my youth and success with freedom and irresponsibility.

I was wrong.

It was around a half hour after my first drink when a wave of roars overtook the music. People around me on the dance floor seemed to be searching for the origin of the noise as well, whirling about with intoxicated grins, until my unsteady gaze landed on a group of dudes hollering and pointing at a blonde in basically nothing but a leather jacket, twerking on the bar with strobe lights going wild around her.

I took an insta live video and shoved my way into the crowd. This was _so_ wild, it needed to be documented and shared.

The strobes flashed on the girl as she jiggled her booty like it was her _job._ I got a little closer - not to get a better look, I already have a gorgeous fiance, though Pierre definitely did get it bad for skinny girls like this one - to make sure the rowdiness stayed encouraging and didn't turn potentially dangerous for the girl, when one of the guys in the crowd reached up to slap her ass (yep, not good). Before I could open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, the girl whipped around to snarl at him herself, and I got a peak at a face I wasn't expecting at all: one with seafoam green eyes, a sharp gaze, and a permanent frown.

One like Yuri Plisetsky.

I kinda just stood there slack-jawed for a minute, and by the time I'd gotten my wits together - I mean seriously, what was he _doing_ here? - he had hopped off the bar and had his elbows propped against the bar stool, gesturing for a drink.

...What?

I didn't really have time to stand there and gawk though, because apparently the crowd hadn't taken his grand exit as an indication to disperse, and the same shit who had slapped her ass - _his_ ass _,_ goddammit, he looked so feminine from behind - was sliding a ten dollar bill to the bartender, clearly buying him a drink (like it would get him anywhere.)

My stomach turned, and I shoved my way between them, using my muscular body as a visual shield for Yuri. He grabbed a shot glass, downed the contents, and only seemed to realize someone had even approached him when my shoulder brushed his, exchanging heat.

"Holy shit," I said, and the closer proximity confirmed that it was, indeed, Yuri Plisetsky. "It's really you, princess."

He glanced at me, then did a double take with a fierce glare. "Fuck, you're here?"

I tried to play it cool, 'cause I remember what being sixteen was like (ahem, I don't remember ever doing anything quite like that, per se, but you get the idea), and I understood that sometimes it involved drinking. While I was surprised to see that he even got in here - weren't they supposed to card at the door? And why is it that they'd given me such a hard time then? - I wasn't approaching him to ruin his night. I was checking on him, because that guy was creepy, and I wanted to make sure he could get home safely.

"Yeah, it's me," I grinned at him, twisting my hands into my signature two J's just because I knew it pissed him off, "just celebrating my big win with the boys."

He rolled his eyes, and beckoned at the bartender. "Great, then why don't you get back to that?" he downed the proffered shot, grimacing, then glared at me again. "Asshole."

 _That's two right there… and he's slurring._ "Alright, easy on the shots there."

"Fuck you."

He probably ordered the third one just to spite me.

"I'm serious, get too fucked up and you're gonna embarrass yourself in front of all your competitors."

"I wasn't exactly expecting to see my competitors here, shithead. And I bet you speak from experience, since you make an ass of yourself all the time."

I kept my smile fixed - oh, this was fun. "I'm just saying, 'cause they say ladies can't drink as much as we men can."

He gawked, and I got a good look at him while he failed to come up with a quick response, alcohol delaying his wit. He was wearing these ridiculous little spandex shorts that barely covered his ass, a crop top, and up close, I recognized that the leather jacket was Otabek's. He must've not even stopped by the hotel after the awards ceremony, as his hair was still in his french-braided pigtails, bobby pins sticking this way and that. He was sporting some eyeliner, however, and absolutely reeked of gin. "Fuck you."

Yeah. He was absolutely fucking wasted if it took that much effort to say those two words to _me_. Which was bad, because he was also pretty naked.

The moronic bartender slid some sort of cocktail across to Yuri, and I snatched it with a wink.

"Wow, good one," I teased, surveying the area for anyone Yuri could possibly be here with. Concern welled in me when he tried to grab the beverage from my hand, arm reaching over half-assed and seeming to give up midway, collapsing back onto the table. He groaned.

"Seriously, can you go now? I didn't come here to get badgered by my shithead competitor."

"Oh yeah? What'd you come here for?"

He struggled to lift his gaze to me, blinking slowly and head bobbing. He looked at the drink in my hand and the delayed words were unnecessary.

"To drink? Really? Well, you've had quite enough. Where's Otabek, it's time for you to go."

Truth be told, I was kinda pissed at Otabek for leaving him this long unattended. Yuri clearly had no control over himself and was surrounded by creeps like the one that was still sitting _right next to me._

"Not here." Yuri had somehow acquired a beer.

"Okay, well who are you here with?"

He fixed me with another half-hearted glare, and tried to twist the cap off, when it clearly needed a bottle opener. Good.

"You're here alone? How did you even get in?"

His face twisted into a devilish snicker. "'Said I knew you. I didn't actually realize you were coming, though."

I rolled my eyes. "Seriously? So let me get this straight. You came into a club using my name, got drunk alone, and started twerking on the bar? All in Otabek's jacket?"

He was attempting to bite the cap off the beer, so I ripped it from between his teeth. "Da."

I tried to mask my bewilderment with casualness, but this was not normal teenage behavior. "Shouldn't you be hanging with Otabek, since you're both leaving tomorrow afternoon?"

"Niet."

That was odd. "So you're just a sore loser? As soon as he scores higher than you, you don't wanna have anything to do with him?"

That seemed to trigger some kind of reaction, because he slammed his hands on the bar and stood up, seething and baring teeth. "No, I'm only a sore loser about losing to idiots like you. Otabek beat me because he was better, and he's not here because a fuckup like me isn't worth his time."

" _JJ, my man!"_

And shit, now Pierre was grabbing my arm and pulling me somewhere, but Yuri was stumbling away and that guy at the bar was still watching him like a shark.

"Pierre, chill man," I yanked my arm away, straining to see Yuri's tiny body meshing back into the crowd, and I shoved through because _no way_ was a sixteen year old gonna get wasted alone in this place, let alone one that small who'd just finished that stunt.

"JJ, it's our song! Wait up!"

I got closer to Yuri, managing to grab onto his little shoulder, and pulled him away from the crowd. I easily pulled him aside, the alcohol making him too uncoordinated to fight against a stronger body.

" _What the fuck, JJ?_ Get off of me!"

"JJ, my maaaaan," Pierre had somehow managed to catch up too, and he flung himself onto me while Yuri was twisting in an attempt to escape my grasp.

(Yep, night of my life.)

"Woah," Pierre slurred, two beers in hand, one of which was spilling down my arm. "Who's the pretty lady, JJ?"

Yuri seethed, "Who is this _ape?!_ "

I pushed Pierre, exacerbated. "Pierre, it's a boy."

"Wait…." He pondered, bent over the wall and squinting against the light that danced on Yuri's sharp cheekbones.

"The gang's all here!" Alan stumbled over, a tangle of limbs and jeans.

"Fuck…" was all I said.

"Wait," Pierre seemed to process finally, "Aren't you the Russian kid?"

" _YES,_ goddammit, now let me go!"

"You look like a girl from behind…"

Yuri was shouting about something, slurring too much to be understood, though he may have been speaking in perfectly coherent Russian. Alan pushed Pierre against the wall and said something about him always ditching him for girls, and Yuri's complaining augmented into something about never being listened to and wanting to just be left alone to get drunk.

I looked at the glass ceiling, one hand still wrapped fully around Yuri's spindly arm, the other occupied by Pierre's body, and felt somewhere between "okay I got this" and "my soul is about to exit my body."

"Guys," I drawled, absolutely _done_ with being sober, "Shut. Up."

Alan looked shattered, and Pierre started to shout _desolé_ at the top of his lungs.

"Hey, hey," I tried, "c'est pas probleme. I've gotta take care of him, but you guys go have fun."

Alan nodded, and, wits about him more than Pierre, asked in _Québécois_ , "Yeah, is he okay? Isn't he only a kid?"

"Oui," I replied. "That's why I'm staying with him."

"Why are we speaking in French?" Pierre slurred, eyes still hanging on Yuri's hips. I knew he wouldn't do that sober, but _seriously?_

The last two shots must've started to hit Yuri, because he slipped his noodle arm out of my hold like a true contortionist, and, startled, I didn't see which direction he went.

"I'll catch up with you guys later," I hurried away, and just barely caught a glimpse of Yuri's blonde head retreating to the bar.

And, of course, creepy dude was still there, producing a glass in a matter of seconds that I suspected didn't contain water. The man leaned over to whisper something to Yuri, who nodded and took the drink. When the man saw me, he walked away, but I just barely managed to yank the glass from Yuri's clumsy fingers.

" _Dammit_ JJ, _what now?"_

"NEVER take drinks from strangers! What are you thinking?" I slammed the glass on the table.

"I saw the damn bartender make it, I'm not some hackjob first timer! For fuck's sake…" He must've forgotten what he was saying, and trailed off into a tangent in Russian. I frowned at the bartender, as if to say _you are incredibly irresponsible, and I'm planning on mentioning it in my Yelp rating._

"Look," I said, knowing what I must sound like but not really caring at this point. "I don't know why you're this upset about a bronze -"

"- a bronze against _you._ "

" - but this emotional, self-destructive behavior is not something I'm gonna sit back and watch, so I'm taking you back to your hotel room."

His eyes challenged me, but since he couldn't focus them, it didn't prove to be all that intimidating. I found myself smiling like the dick I am, unable to help myself. It pissed him off more - as expected.

"Are you gonna waste that cocktail?"

" _Mon dieu,"_ I shoved my hand into my hair, absolutely exacerbated, "You didn't even pay for it!"

"You can't just waste a perfectly good drink! Give it here!"

" _No,_ you are so beyond done drinking Yuri, you're slurring every word and can barely stand."

"I'm not! You can't control me!"

"What if I called Yakov?"

Yuri's jaw snapped shut. "You don't have his number."

"Yes, I do."

He fixed me with a doubtful stare. "Why would you ever need to contact him?"

I thought I finally had the kitten in a bag. I grinned convincingly. "For situations like these."

Yuri paused, propping his elbow on the bar. "Nope. Yakov wouldn't trust you."

My smile wavered. "And why's that?"

He snorted, knowing he'd won. "Because everyone in Russia hates you. Including me. Now give me the drink."

Well then. "No, princess, I told you you've had enough."

He turned away from me, like he'd already wasted enough of his attention on me.

"I'm not leaving if you're gonna make me waste that drink. I'll wait until you hand it over."

"Oh, come on." I replied.

"Nope. I don't waste alcohol."

I rolled my eyes, convinced that this was gonna be the night that the old wives' tale about your eyes getting stuck in that position became true.

"I could easily just throw you over my shoulder and haul you outta here, kitten."

"And then I'd scream that I was being kidnapped by some perv."

I paused. He seemed pretty self-satisfied.

"You got me there."

He nodded, eyebrows raised mockingly. He reached for the drink, like I was gonna just hand it over.

"I'm not giving it to you."

He glowered. "Well, I guess we'll be here all night then."

"How many have you even had?"

"Hard to say," he slurred, not looking at me. "Oh, I remember now: none of your fucking business."

I groaned, face in hands. If I let him drink any more, he might throw up or even blackout. "Look, I'll drink the drink so we won't waste it. Then we're leaving, okay?"

He narrowed his eyes, and since he was completely fucked up, muttered, "Okay."

I looked him in the eye, cocked the glass, and sipped. It was some sort of gin and tonic with lime, so it wasn't completely awful, but I still choked when I gulped it down.

I set the glass back onto the bar. "Good?"

He crossed his arms. "It's not done."

If this were any other situation, I would've been amused, because the kid was being completely ridiculous. He was clearly just using his opportunity to push me around, since it was usually me doing the pushing, and only because I was so ready for this night to end, I let him. I shook my head as if to say _really?_ and took another swig.

"Good." He said, and his mouth curled into a clever smile. I was about to take him around the shoulders to lead him out, but he licked his lips and his gaze wandered down to my mouth.

"I appreciate that, JJ."

Was he… _flirting_ with me?

"I -"

Before I could get any words out or begin to wonder how I'd fallen for a cheap trick like that, he was up and slipping through the crowd, out of sight until I spotted him all but sprinting up the glass stairs.

The little shit was heading for the VIP section.

I made my way up the steps far slower because my size didn't let me slip through crowds quite so easily. I wasn't all that concerned though, because I doubted the kid would be able to get into the VIP section at all. Once I got upstairs, I paced over to where the bouncers stood stony-faced by a translucent purple glass door. I put on my best nice-guy expression and bit back my annoyance, which seemed to be an adequate summary of my night so far.

"Hey there fellas," I said, but they barely spared me a glance.

"Billet," one stated, though it was supposed to be an inquiry about a ticket I clearly didn't have.

"I, uh, yeah, I'm sure you get this a lot, but I don't actually have a ticket -"

"Reservation," the other deadpanned, and I ran a hand through my hair, trying to peer around them into the room. I could only distinguish the bottoms of chairs and a line of women manning a long, purple-glass bar on the left side.

"Yeah, you see I don't have one of those either, I was just wondering if you saw a short blonde boy - well, he looks kinda like a girl - I guess a short blonde person in a leather jacket then? I'm looking for him."

These guys were like, statues or something. My anxiety was definitely out of character, but as I peered around them, I saw how weirdly unpopulated the room was, probably on account of how exclusive it was. I knew Yuri must've been in there, because there was nowhere else for him to hide unless he'd jumped off the stairs and crowd-surfed his way back to the bar without me noticing.

"You want to enter the VIP room," the guard said.

"If he's in there," I replied, still peering in as best I could, but the bouncers were large and it was hard to see around them.

"He's in there," the other bouncer said.

"Oh," relief flooded through me, and I thought I'd finally caught a break, "then _yes, merci beaucoup,_ I just need to pick him up so I promise I'll be in and out real quick -"

" - then you'll need to buy a ticket."

… guess not.

"Well how did _he_ get in?"

I caught a glimpse of something blonde bobbing around from behind the bouncers, and leaned to my left, standing on the tips of my toes like a complete fool, to see Yuri leaning over the table drunkenly and seemingly chatting away among a few men. Beside him was none other than the creep from the bar.

"One of the regulars liked him," the bouncer replied.

My stomach dropped into my shoes.

"Look," I negotiated, all patience lost to cold distress, "you gotta let me in. I'm not gonna stay long or take drinks, I'm just gonna pick up the kid and leave."

"Tickets cost C$75."

I groaned with agonizing frustration and a distinct gravitational pull that told me I really needed to get in there. Appearances be damned, I stood on my damn toes and craned my neck to find bar guy's hand brushing Yuri's lower back, while one of the bartenders brought them drinks with a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach her eyes. Yuri took a sip.

 _Not good, not good, not good…_

"Alright Tybalt and Mercutio," I said, sapped of any remaining composure, "I'll have you know that 'regular' who let that kid in has been creeping on him all night and getting him drunk, and that kid is really emotionally vulnerable right now because I beat him in this competition today and he seems to be having some sort of issue with his best friend, and he clearly doesn't know his limits. So unless you're fine letting whatever the _fuck_ is happening in there continue, I suggest you let me in, 'cause it's not like I've got C$75 laying around to use to walk in there and walk back out."

"Check," one of them replied, and I couldn't believe what I was hearing. With one final glance at the creep running his fingers along Yuri's spine with a sickening smile and one final check with my internal compass that guaranteed if I didn't suck it up now I'd hate myself forever, I tore my wallet out of my jeans and shoved the money into the guard's hands. So much for a cab ride home and breakfast tomorrow.

I basically _ripped_ the damn doors open, and trained my glare on the guy from the bar. There were a few men sitting around a table playing cards - probably gambling, to be honest - and I was surprised to hear that they were speaking in French instead of English, meaning Yuri was intentionally left in the dark unless addressed directly.

"Give him another one of those and maybe he'll let us take some pictures of that sweet ass."

Some of the guys laughed, and bar guy was running his hands through Yuri's hair. Yuri, completely unaware and clearly even more hammered than the last time I'd seen him, leaned into the touch, face flushed and distinguishably bleary eyed, even from my distance.

"Hey baby," bar creep said in English, and Yuri's head bobbed to look at him, "we all saw you dance downstairs, and you were so good. Think you could maybe do that for us? Like, I don't know, a little private show?"

"Get him to take off the jacket," one commented in French again.

Yuri looked dazzled. "You… wanna see me dance?"

I fumed.

I was _definitely_ leaving this place a bad review on Yelp.

"Oh, _yes,_ baby, we wanna see you dance. Here, do it right here: just do what you were doing downstairs right here on my lap."

...Because of course Yuri would be sensitive to that type of thing: he'd gotten third today, which by his standards is a pretty poor placement, and nobody was paying damn attention to him the whole competition. Yakov was busy with all his other skaters, Lilia had stayed in St Petersburg, Viktor was too busy playing both coach and competitor to pay him any mind, as far as I knew none of his family had come to see him perform, and for some strange reason Otabek was out of the picture.

" _You wanna see me dance._ " These guys were complete scumbags.

Yuri was making his way over, and the guys were still making their commentary in French, when I made my presence known, strutting over to the table in mock confidence that was actually just all my anger - originally a tight knot in my stomach - unthreading itself and seeping into my veins.

"I don't think so," I intercepted. "We're going now, Yuri."

He hesitated, registering my presence taking a moment. "Fuck, you again?"

One of the guys cursed in French. "This damn guy again? I thought we lost him."

… did they think I didn't speak French?

A bearded guy waved his hands around. "Ah don't worry about him, he'll get uncomfortable and leave soon."

"But what if the kid tries to leave?"

"He won't," creepy bar guy reassured, "he wants to experiment. They don't have a lot of _this_ for boys in Russia."

I grimaced. "Yes," I said in English, rolling with the assumption, "I told you that I'm taking you home."

One of the guys whistled. The knot was uncurling in uncontrollable wisps of anger.

"Well," Yuri said, petulant as always, "I'm not ready to leave."

"We're going."

"You're not my boyfriend," he snarled, "As if I'd ever have one..."

I noted that last part, and figured it was something to be addressed in a safer environment.

"I know," I said, "but these guys are trying to trick you into giving them a lap dance."

Yuri seemed somewhat uncomfortable when I said this, glancing at bar creep with wariness and hurt.

"Aw, come on," bar creep said, this time in English. "I wasn't trying to fool you. Name it whatever you want, but I want to see you do that move you were doing down there again. I don't _really_ care who you do it on, just give it a whirl."

"Yeah, that's good," one of them commented in French. Although Yuri didn't look fully convinced, I felt a new knot - this time fear - when bar guy started running his hands down Yuri's sides while giving me sidelong glances, as if he was dangling Yuri in front of me, daring me to do something.

"Look," bar creep said to Yuri, who couldn't hold his head up. The man gently lifted Yuri's chin with mock-gentle fingers. "Answer this one question: didn't you want to dance for us before this guy came in? Huh?"

Yuri paused, then nodded.

The fear wound itself tighter in my stomach. I couldn't place it, until I realized it was the way I felt right before last year's grand prix final: the wound up nerves that prevented me from doing anything because the stakes were so high. I knew that if Yuri did this - even if he wanted to, despite the fact that he was too young to consent to anything sexual - it would open the floodgates to things that he potentially didn't want to do, and being so defenseless and drunk, wouldn't be able to stop. My body was frozen, despite the gravity that was pulling me toward Yuri. It knew what it was supposed to do; it just wouldn't move.

"So it seems to me like he's intruding on all your fun. Look, it's no big deal. Just pick someone - anyone, really - and I'll put on a song for ya, and we'll get started, hmm?"

Yuri nodded again, and _fuck fuck fuck_ this was bad, Yuri was stubborn and he was gonna do this no matter what, and I knew it could either be safe or not. There was only one person in the room that I could control, that I could be sure wouldn't do anything to hurt him.

"Wait," I interjected, stepping over to the table. "Do it on me."

There was another pause, another French comment - _"Est-il sérieux?_ \- and I sat down.

"Wow," said bearded guy, "Even in that gold band of yours?"

I looked to my engagement ring, knowing I was just choosing between the lesser of two evils. I drafted my yelp review in my head:

 _It took about two years to get in, the bartenders tried to poison a minor, there's pedophiles all over, the mafia is definitely in the VIP section though I doubt the bouncers would let the FBI in, and I was lowkey forced to cheat on my fiance in there. Stay FAR away._

"Yeah, I'm sure." I spread my legs and looked at the creepy bar guy again. He cocked a brow back, and Yuri glanced between us.

"Go ahead, baby," he said to Yuri without taking his eyes off me, like it was a challenge. "I'll get the music."

Yuri gave him another glance, and with another reassuring nod, hesitantly approached me, warily placing a bony hand on each of my muscled shoulders.

"Don't be afraid to touch him, baby," bar creep said, and Yuri moved closer until wisps of his hair tickled my cheeks. I tried not to look at him when the music started and he started moving, because I never expected to be this close to him. I tried to think myself out of the situation, but my eyes floated across his gyrating body - it's not like I could possibly _not_ notice the proximity of his ass to my crotch - and it would've taken every ounce of my willpower to not get hard had the whole situation not been so incredibly uncomfortable. The other VIPs started hooting as soon as Yuri started circling his ass around, shouting obscenities in French and yelling at him to _shake it! Grind down harder! Start kissing his neck!_ in English. I made myself look at one point on his face, a small freckle on the bridge of his nose, and ignored the feeling of our exchanging heat, the grinding of his body on mine, the sensual bend of his slender neck, the strong odor of gin and fresh sweat, the flash of white teeth from bar-creep when he saw my clenched jaw and tensed brows. Yuri rocked back and forth, and when he grabbed my hands, placing them on his hips that absolutely _rolled -_ for real, was he trained, into me, or simply so drunk his body could move in ways it never had? - and despite the purple and blue strobes, the haze of my tipsy gaze, and the sensation of body on body, my eyes could only rest on the glint of gold on my left ring finger, and how the light of it stood out even against so bright and loud of a backdrop. I channelled all of the night's anger, frustration, that rock of nerves, and my present discomfort into my left finger. The band held me together. That was when I knew this wasn't something I could keep a secret.

As soon as the scattered pieces of me pulled themselves back together, the song had finished. The whole experience was so surreal I couldn't even feel anger at the tormenting laughter from the other members of the room, the compliments to Yuri, and the French commentary on all the things they wanted to do to him. Yuri looked dizzy, and maybe some of the commands about things he should do with his ass had made him uncomfortable, because his cherubic face looked somewhat resigned. When he removed himself from my lap, I stood up, and a sharp pinch to Yuri's ass by someone or other sent him tumbling straight into me. I felt another wave of anger flood over me, but I was steadier than before - calmer - and I wrapped my arm tightly around him, pulling his defenseless form as close to mine as the laws of physics would allow, and walked him to the door. I turned around, standing as tall as I could with my shoulders pulled back, athletic body taut as a whip.

"By the way," was all I said, "Je parle français."

* * *

Yuri must've been pretty tuckered out from all that poor decision making and running away from me, because by the time I'd dragged his sorry ass out of the club, he'd gone completely silent, all arguments dissipating as his body went numb with intoxication and gave up on supporting its weight on its own. He leaned on me as we entered into the chilly night air.

We remained mostly silent, except when Yuri said to hold up when he dry heaved over a recycling bin. As much as I'd wanted to scream at him an hour before, the image of my ring glinting during the lapdance - a simple symbol of the solidarity between Isabella and I that gave me strength - in stark contrast to that of Yuri alone at the bar with nobody present to walk him home, showed me that what Yuri did not need right now was criticism. I watched him as he stumbled home like a baby deer on fresh new, gangly legs, and wondered what I could do besides the simple gesture of withholding criticism.

There were a few things that stuck out to me: things that didn't fit into my (albeit limited) profile of Yuri Plisetsky, Russian punk (or fairy, depending on who you're asking), Grand Prix gold medalist and notoriously cocky son-of-a-bitch. While I was never fully convinced that the tough-guy persona he presented was anything more than teenage boy flexing - I mean, seriously, he's like 90 pounds and looks like a damn princess - I didn't exactly think that his self-confidence was feigned as well.

" _-and Otabek isn't here because a fuckup like me isn't worth his time."_

" _As if I'll ever have a boyfriend…"_

I glanced at him, noting the evidence of overworkedness casting shadows beneath his eyes, the moonlight illuminating the crease where his eyebrows have been permanently drawn together in a frozen shout, and an unfamiliar bow of his head that exaggerated how diligently he stretched himself on a daily basis to appear larger: to be _more._

I tried not to jump to conclusions about how those two emotional statements could be related, but there I was, leaping into a quad salchow, spinning with the question, _does Yuri have feelings for Otabek?_

It looked like he was maybe coming down from the wild state of intoxication and into the messy, emotional stage (oh, joy). I took a chance.

"Why are you so upset? You're supposed to be drunk."

He didn't reply, but didn't bother to bust my balls for asking. I sighed, relinquishing my curiosity as I tilted my head back, taking in the sight of my home city bustling about in skyscrapers above us.

"I've been thinking about him for months," he eventually said, eyes on the sidewalk stretching before us. Between beats of his sentences, I could hear the low thrum of our sneakers on the pavement. "It's - he's - it's been driving me crazy, I just, I can't deal with not knowing anymore, you know, about him, or us, or whatever."

I knew we were entering some territory I was unfamiliar with. I could imagine how uncomfortable this kind of discussion might be to have with his competitor - even though I had it figured out from the beginning, but still - but considering the empty seats around him at the bar, I figured simply being an attentive ear would be enough.

"So when I found out we would both be competing here, I like, promised myself that I'd, you know, bring it up," he said "And it just, it didn't work out."

It was pretty hard to believe that he was saying all of this to me, but then again alcohol was involved and he did seem pretty vulnerable all night. I mulled over the new information, suddenly remembering what it was like being sixteen, how it was even hard for a straight Canadian dude with a gift and a loving family. I remembered meeting you, and that swell of uncertainty and longing, and tried to imagine a world where you told me no.

"I'm sorry," I eventually said, unhelpfully. "Rejection is tough, but I don't think Otabek is the type of guy to let that kinda thing end a friendship."

"What? No, he didn't reject me, I never asked."

"Wait what? Why?"

"Well," he shoved a hand in his hair, then yanked it out to gesture wildly with his hands. I was still perplexed. "I lost! And like, who's gonna wanna be with some girly teenager who scores a 140?"

Baffled, I didn't even know where to begin the assessment of all the things wrong with what he'd just said. "You're still stuck on that free skate?"

"Yes!"

"Wow," I said, shaking my head with a disbelieving and exasperated chuckle. "So lemme get this straight: you're getting this worked up about a conversation that hasn't even happened? Has Otabek even given you any indication that he wants to be left alone, or are you confusing him as much as you are me?"

"I-"

"And you're questioning your entire identity as a skater and your self-worth as a person over a bronze medal and a single sub-standard free score?"

"I fucking _knew_ I couldn't trust you! Leave it to asshole know-it-all Jean-Jacques Leroy to ask me a question then mock me when I answer honestly for once!"

I wanted to laugh, because _there_ was the princess, but this entire situation was so incredibly absurd I opted for a self-pitying groan of agony. I'd stopped walking to scrub my hands over my face, so he was scowling at me, blushing, arms crossed defensively. He was probably embarrassed that I, his sworn enemy (cute), knew about his crush. So I threw him a bone.

"Look, you're being too hard on yourself. A bronze is great. We don't always all perform at our best, but if your worst is gonna get you a third place in an international competition you have absolutely no reason to be this self-loathing. Most skaters would kill to have the score you got."

He scoffed. "I'm not most skaters."

"Regardless, you can't just push your entire life aside every time you get a score you don't like. Life goes on. Skating might be your career but you can't let it control your self-esteem or your life."

He maintained his unfriendly body language, but he was so damn little and young looking I couldn't take it seriously. I threw an arm around him in a little side-hug, pulling him into me and firmly rubbing his arm. He stumbled. Lightweight.

"Fuck you."

And because I'm a cocky son-of-a-bitch too, I said, "sorry, not available."

But he didn't shove my arm off of himself right away, and we resumed walking.

"I still hate you."

"Aw, come on, you gotta admit that that was some pretty good advice I just gave you."

"Anyone could've spewed that garbage. And anyway, I never asked for your help."

"Alright then, kitten."

By the time we'd walked the four remaining blocks back to the hotel, Yuri had fallen into a ridiculous tirade about me and everyone around him treating him like a kid, though his slurred curses made it somewhat comical. I lead him into the elevator, and picked his keycard out of Otabek's jacket much to his embarrassment and protest: room 308. I clicked floor three, and prayed that none of the other skaters would see me walk a wasted teenager in booty shorts back to his room.

Thankfully, nobody on floor three was awake at this ungodly hour, and I keyed him into his room in relative peace.

"Alright," I said, opening the door and flicking on the light. "Time for bed."

He shoved in past me. "I'm not some weak little kid you get to order around."

I shook my head. "Of course not."

He was watching me from inside the room as I waited in the doorway. "Well? Are you gonna get out of here?"

"Not until you've changed and gotten in bed," I replied, because I really didn't trust that he wouldn't dart right back out as soon as I shut the door behind me.

As usual, his face twisted into its regular expression of rage. "This is what I'm talking about! Nobody trusts me, nobody takes me seriously, everyone thinks I can't handle shit on my own when I do it _all the time -"_

"Alright, alright there kitten, easy."

"-like right there! Don't illegetimize my feelings just because I'm younger than you are! Don't just call me a kitten because I look like one when I'm not sweet or cuddly or fuzzy!"

"Aw, come on, I'm just busting your chops," I teased, thinking about Alan and Pierre, and the constant stream of insults that characterized our friendship.

"I don't know what that means, and I don't care! Nobody's listening to me!" and here we go again… "I say I wanna do Welcome to the Madness, and they say it's not what I'm gonna do. I say I want you to stop calling me girly, and you think it's so hilarious and call me a girl again. I say I want Viktor to choreograph a program, but he ignores me and flies to Hasetsu. I say I'm not ready to leave the club, and you drag me back here. I say I don't wanna be a prima ballerina again, and they have me wearing white and a bun. Nobody, literally NOBODY listens to me, except - except-!"

He took off a shoe and threw it against the wall. I sympathized with whoever occupied the room next door. He tore off the other and threw it on the floor, flinging himself onto the bed. Sure, the drama of it all could be chalked up to teenage angst, but that was the very supposition he was protesting. I walked deeper into the room, and sat on the chair at the desk, spinning it so it faced the foot of his bed.

"Except Otabek," I finished.

He was still faced down on his pillow, but I could still make out when he muttered, "-and then they wonder why I scream so much."

I sighed. "Y'know, I think it's funny when you scream at people, because it's like you think saying the same thing again but louder is gonna make people do it."

He whirled around. "Well maybe I wouldn't have to be so loud if people would take what I'm saying seriously the first time around!"

"I know, I get that, but who says they're not hearing you? Maybe people are just trying to do what's best for you."

I knew I was going out on a limb, but if his complaint was based on people not listening to him the way I wasn't listening to him at the club, then I could imagine other instances where people ignored what he wanted because it wouldn't be good for him in the long run.

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Okay then," I ventured, "if I was ignoring you all of tonight, then what would you have wanted me to do? What about in the VIP room, what should I have done to please you?"

He gawked for a second, then, refusing to back down, said, "you should've left me alone! I told you from the beginning that I was fine, that I wanted to be left alone, but instead of listening to me you started following me around and trying to control me and treating me like some -"

I threw my hands in the air. "There was no damn way that you were fine, you were drunk off your ass, twerking on tables - "

"I _wanted to!_ God forbid I try to go have a good time!"

"That was the opposite of a good time! You were out of control, emotionally deranged, you had no idea what was going on around you -"

"I was perfectly fine! I'm not weak, I'm not _stupid_ , and I didn't need you!"

" - could barely hold your head up, took drinks from strangers -"

We continued shouting over each other like that for a minute or so, the poor neighbors, but the details of it aren't important. The whole time, though, I was sinking back into that state I was in before last year's Grand Prix and the minutes when I couldn't get into the VIP room. That knot in my stomach was back, the shake of my nerves, but instead of uncurling itself in waves of fear and immobility, it was like there were more strings, coiling themselves tighter, tighter, tighter until the mass exploded in one surge of motion.

"You have NO IDEA what could've happened if I hadn't stepped in!"

"Oh, please, what could've happened, I was -"

And there it was, the grand explosion, the shake of my nerves bursting in one terrifying display. I didn't even remember when he'd gotten into a standing position, but I grabbed him from around the waist and threw him back onto the bed like he was made of air. Before he could do or say anything, I was above him, pinning his hands above his head with one hand fully wrapped around both spindly wrists and pinning his kicking legs down with sheer body weight alone. I grabbed one of them and - true to his unusual and biologically startling flexibility - thrusted it above his head, his body now completely exposed and helpless to my dominant physical ability. True to the situation I was trying to demonstrate, my dick was right by his ass, and our faces were a mere centimeters apart.

I stayed like that for a beat, having barely realized I'd even done it myself, before I could register the look of absolute disbelief on his face. He was shell-shocked, paralyzed with terror, and from up close I could see that his pupils were still blown, and the beginnings of water gathering in his eyes.

And shit, I hadn't even meant to do that.

I got off and pulled him into a hug, tucking his head into the crook of my neck and holding him tight. I felt the fast thrum of his heartbeat on his back and guiltily realized, _I did that. I did that to him._

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I said, because _that could've happened_ , and I wished that it was never so close to happening.

I waited for the thrum to slow down in his chest (ahem my chest, but don't tell anyone), laying on the bed in a weird enemy hug in the dead of night with a sixteen year old who never asked for my help. This would be the third time in one night that I was closer to Yuri Plisetsky than I ever expected to be.

"Are you done tossing me around like a ragdoll?" He eventually said, and I let him sit up, looking at his wrists that held the imprint of my hands.

"Look, I didn't mean to hurt you, I just need you to understand -"

"Save it," he snapped, and since he stood up to rifle through a suitcase laying in the corner of the room, pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a teeshirt to change into, I figured that it was his way of saying I was right. He'd heard me, I was right, so he was listening by doing what I told him to.

Huh.

I heard him turn on the shower, then checked the clock: 3am. I didn't know if he had an early flight, or something he might need to get up for, but it would certainly be difficult for him to do so hungover and sleep-deprived. I sighed, figuring as long as I was the designated help of the night, I might as well ensure that someone was around tomorrow morning to make sure he gets out of Montreal alive.

I don't know when I got his number, though it was probably at the last GPF when he and his fiance got absolutely trashed and relived the night they met, but for some reason I had Viktor Nikiforov's contact information in my phone, and figured he, being Yuri's teammate and all, would know what time Yuri needed to be up and whatnot.

So at 3am, I called living legend and career obstacle of a lifetime Viktor Nikiforov, and for whatever reason, he actually answered.

"This better be important," a groggy voice muttered from the other line.

"Oh, wow, you picked up."

"...should I not've?"

"No, no, I'm just, surprised," I said stupidly, and no my hands were definitely _not_ getting clammy, I mean this guy was just the biggest obstacle to my career and I think that 3am phone call might've been the first time he'd ever addressed me directly. "I - this is weird, but I'm in Yuri's room."

And _wow_ I was really butchering this, because that was definitely a string of Russian curses on the other line, and I could hear the sheets ruffling like he was getting out of bed to come hang me with one of his billion-and-a-half gold medals.

"I swear on Yakov Feltsman's shiny head -"

"No, no, shit no," I backtracked, "I saw him drunk at a nightclub and took him back with me."

...and I definitely should've planned what I was gonna say before I'd called him, _my God._

"I'm going to give you a chance to fix whatever it is you're trying to say," he said.

"I saw him at the club all drunk and stuff, so I brought him back to the hotel. Like, to sleep. Without me. Alone."

There was a hum of understanding. "And you're calling me because..?"

"Well, he's still pretty not sober, and I was just hoping you could make sure he gets onto his flight on time and safely."

"Oh," he said, his tone lightening dramatically. "I see, that does make sense. Well, I can make sure he gets up early enough to catch his noon flight, but I can't promise to personally escort him, since I'm going to the Cup of China tomorrow."

I could've kicked myself, because I called the man at this hour when he had a thirteen hour flight tomorrow morning, and his own competition the next day. (Then again, maybe that'll keep him from scoring his best and beating me later on).

"Oh, I'm - "

"No worries," he interrupted, but without a hint of malice. "Yakov will be with him, not me. He'll get him home safely."

"Oh." I said, "thank you, then."

"No," he corrected, and I hated that he was talented _and_ charming. "Thank _you_. The debt is all mine, and Yura's, though he'll never admit it."

I chuckled in agreement, any tension dissipating and my usual brazen and confident self returned. I'd just woken Viktor Nikiforov up at 3am and requested a favor of him to have him say he owed _me_ one. We were bidding our farewells, when I remembered something Yuri had told me earlier.

"Hey, wait, why does all of the Russian team hate me?"

Yeah, it was brash, but it's not like Nikiforov and I had any sort of report to preserve, so there was no reason to be cautious. Our lack of interaction was actually the precise reason why this new information was somewhat disenfranchising for me.

"Ah, I suppose Yura told you that," he replied. "Only he would say something so poignant and loosely founded on truth. I don't hate you. I barely know you."

"But you don't like me."

He hesitated. "I didn't say that."

"Why?" I asked: not because I cared what he thought about me - I didn't really like Nikiforov either, always stealing all the gold - but simply because I couldn't place why he would.

He was quiet for a moment, like he didn't know if he should tell me or was unsure himself.

"I suppose," he eventually said, "It's because you're selfish."

Neither of us said anything for a few beats, listening to the static of the connection. He must've been pondering it, or having an epiphany of some sort, because when he spoke again, his tone was contemplative.

"Well," he said. "Thank you again for taking care of him. These... _unexpected_ acts of kindness can be… well, they can change your perspective on things. Goodnight."

"You too," I said, and he hung up.

When I took the phone away from my ear in somewhat surreal astonishment, I opened a new message, and just for the hell of it, entered Otabek Altin's contact information.

The shower water stopped running, and I heard Yuri shuffling in the bathroom with towels, clothing, toothpaste and whatnot. I got off his bed and uncapped a water bottle for him by the time he emerged from the bathroom, hair unbraided and eyeliner-free. I handed it to him, and he took a sizable gulp before sitting on the bed and placing it on the nightstand. He looked at me.

"I'm going to bed now."

I nodded at him, and headed to the door as he got himself situated beneath the hefty blankets. I stopped in the doorway, phone screen still illuminated, and turned slightly to regard him.

"Y'know, it's hard for him to listen to you if you're not talking."

"Huh?"

"Otabek," I said, shutting off the room light. The light from the hallway seeped in the cracked door and drew a single stripe down his left eye and cheek. "You should tell him. Especially since he'll be checking in on you tomorrow morning."

"Wait -!"

I saw him shoot up in alarm, but I shut the door before he could get any further protest out, laughing to myself. Oh, he was probably pissed at me, but what else was new. I wrote Otabek a brief, somewhat cryptic message, _so yuri was pretty drunk tn. U should stop by tmrw morning, rm 308,_ then sent that shit into the universe.

I made my way out of his room and into the crisp night. It was that time of night when it was so late or early that the air felt electric, and I wondered how in holy fuck Alan and Pierre were, since the morons were probably still out. I started the walk back to my apartment, reflecting on how unexpected and surreal tonight had been, yet oddly enough, how I was glad I was there, in that stupid club, when I really was needed. I was enjoying the déjà-vu of the warm roll of my sneakers on the pavement, when my phone buzzed.

From: Otabek Altin: _im confused but ok_

I unlocked my phone to reply with a clever _you and me both man_ when I realized I had another notification.

From: Bella Yang 3: _came back early to surprise you and u weren't there :( wya?_

I smiled to myself, thinking about how great of a listener you and Otabek are, and how lucky I was to have someone whose support followed me even when I didn't think you were anywhere nearby. I accompanied my reply with three red hearts -

To: Bella Yang 3: _tell u everything tmrw morning. Love u_

and hit send.


End file.
